Chapter 6: The Flame of Faith Never Dies

When the glass door thudded against Song Zhao’s palm, he heard a half-suppressed sob escape his throat, so low it sounded like ashes swept away by the night wind.

His fingertips brushed the cold glass, the chill climbing up his knuckles, reminiscent of the soaked umbrella from a rainy night twenty years ago.

The library, long closed for the night, was shrouded in darkness; only the duty room glowed with warm yellow light, like a stubborn ember refusing to fade.

Su Wan’s shadow was fragmented by the window panes, cast upon the yellowed case files. She was bent over the desk, the soft scratch of her pen against paper unusually clear in the silence, like a silkworm devouring mulberry leaves.

He reached to push, only then realizing the door was locked from inside.

Knuckles tapped the glass, and the crisp “tap” startled her into looking up. Strands of hair slipped from behind her ear, revealing half a pale face.

Her lashes quivered, like butterfly wings brushed by the wind, as though she’d anticipated his arrival.

Su Wan stood, knocking over the chair cushion, but made no move to pick it up. Instead, she slid a yellowed envelope to the center of the desk.

The envelope’s edges were rough and curled, coarse to the touch. The wax seal’s pattern had faded, and his fingertips caught on its fine scratches. But the back was stamped with a clear vermillion mark: “Jiangcheng City Library, Entered August 15, 1998,” the ink raised, weighted with time.

“Song Zhao.” Her voice was as light as dust settling on the letter, her breath stirring the paper, making its corners tremble. “When your father returned the book, my mentor was the director. He said this letter could only be given to you—if you ever came back.”

The moment his fingers brushed the envelope, his palm throbbed painfully, as if a current leapt from paper to blood.

He remembered that rainy night twenty years ago—the muffled thud of his father’s umbrella handle hitting muddy ground, the patter of rain on asphalt; remembered crouching at the wall to retrieve the umbrella, rainwater seeping down his hair into his neck, icy cold, and ink stains still wet on the umbrella’s ribs, bleeding a faint blue.

Now, the handwriting on the envelope pierced through the paper—his father’s favored fountain pen script, sharp and bold: “To my future self—if you see this letter, it means the ‘Cicada’ has finally awakened.”

Opening it proved harder than he’d imagined.

The wax seal cracked with a faint snap, his nails digging into his palm, a sting flaring at his fingertips.

The letter rustled, aged brown, and the first line made his vision go dark: “Zhao’er, if you are reading this, it means I have been killed.”

“Dad…” His Adam’s apple moved, the rest of the words stuck in his throat, choking him, his chest aching.

His father’s voice seemed to pierce twenty years of rain, clear in his ear—the man who always crouched before his desk to correct files, who secretly tucked chocolate into his schoolbag on birthdays, now writing a death notice with calm precision: “I have uncovered the fraudulent accounts in the Zhaoyang Lane demolition. Behind it are Zhou Mingyuan and Lin Haoyu, conspiring to launder money through charity projects, forcibly demolishing homes and causing three deaths, faking a fire. They have threatened me, but I have hidden evidence in ‘the third section of the umbrella ribs.’ Trust science, trust technology, do not act rashly. Father.”

The signature read July 12, 2003—the eve of his father’s death.

Song Zhao’s knee hit the desk corner, the dull pain making him stumble, the sharp edge biting into his flesh, forcing him to grit his teeth.

Su Wan caught his shoulder in time, her palm’s warmth seeping through his shirt, bringing a long-lost steadiness.

“You had your car accident the year I transferred to the Ancient Books Department. When I saw the news, I guessed it—what they fear isn’t you solving the case, but you inheriting the mission of this letter.” She turned to the bookshelf and pulled out “Jiangcheng Handicrafts of the Republic Era,” stopping at “Umbrella Section.” The pages were yellow and brittle, crackling softly as her fingers turned them. “Lin’s Oiled Paper Umbrella, the third rib is hollow, used to hide medicine or secret messages. Your father chose this because he knew only someone versed in ancient texts would notice such a detail.”

Song Zhao suddenly remembered the broken umbrella in the evidence storage—a relic Lin Xiaoman’s father had submitted years ago. Its canopy was blackened with mold, and flakes fell at the slightest touch. The ribs were rusted, and he’d once written in his report, “No forensic value.”

Now he almost rushed to the restoration room, yanking open the tool cabinet drawers with a crash, the sound of metal echoing in the empty space.

The moment the tweezers pried open the umbrella rib’s joint, a faint click sounded, and a miniature USB drive, metallic and gleaming, dropped onto the workbench—cold and smooth, like a heart that had slept for years.

On its back was engraved “2003-ZY-07”—ZY, his father’s initials, the groove deep and clear. Running his finger over it, he could almost feel the force of his father’s carving.

His fingers trembled on the keyboard, and as he plugged it in, three folders sprang up: meticulously scanned account details, each page stamped with “Lin Charity Foundation,” the red seal steady; a bribe list, from minor foremen to the city’s chief engineer, the top name being Zhou Mingyuan’s secretary; and a video file, twelve seconds long, freezing his blood—Lin Haoyu, clad in a tailored suit, holding a gasoline can, pouring it onto a door plastered with “Demolish.” As the flames rose, the sign “No. 7 Zhaoyang Lane” shone bright, the crackling of burning wood echoing from the screen.

His phone vibrated—Dong Lan’s message: “Located you at the library, five minutes out.”

The provincial bureau arrived faster than Song Zhao had expected.

Dong Lan entered with the wind, the hem of her black trench coat still wet with dew, droplets sliding down the fabric and staining the floor.

She bypassed Su Wan and leaned over the computer screen.

“Hash value solidified.” She pulled out an encrypted device, its metal casing cold in the light. “I need to send this to the Central Oversight Group for immediate record.” Her fingers danced across the keyboard, but she looked up at Song Zhao, “Lu Yuan says Zhou Mingyuan has a foreign reception tonight, locked in at the airport VIP lounge. Once the video goes public, he won’t even clear customs.”

“No.” Song Zhao pressed her wrist, feeling her pulse under his touch. “If we go public now, they’ll destroy all related evidence. I want them to confess themselves.”

Dong Lan’s eyebrows arched—a habitual gesture when she heard a clever plan.

Song Zhao licked his dry lips, the cracked skin stinging: “Fake a leak of overseas data, leak word that Zhaoyang Lane evidence is uploaded to the dark web. Their guilty conscience will drive them to send someone to silence the middleman—catching them in the act is more valuable than an outright reveal.”

At three in the morning, an encrypted post appeared on an anonymous forum: “2003 Jiangcheng Demolition Scandal, price 500,000 USDT,” accompanied by a cropped screenshot of the accounts.

Song Zhao monitored the software, the jumping IPs faster than his heartbeat, green dots flashing on screen like snakes slithering in the dark.

Six hours later, an IP tagged “Lin Foundation Satellite Phone” repeatedly refreshed the page, its signal traced to the outskirts—“Lin Charity Training Center.”

“Zhao Zhenbang’s car left the city ten minutes ago.” Lu Yuan’s voice message crackled with static, underlaid with the hum of traffic. “Disciplinary officers are tailing, recording equipment is on.”

As Song Zhao donned night vision goggles, Su Wan slipped compressed biscuits into his pocket, the plastic wrapping rustling.

“The third vent in the basement duct is movable, exit in the west flowerbed.” Her fingers pressed his hand, chilly yet unmistakably resolute. “I’ll wait for you in the Ancient Books Department.”

The training center’s wall was lower than expected.

Climbing over, his pant leg caught on wire, tearing with a sharp rip that echoed in the night. Cold wind slipped through the gap, crawling along his skin.

The basement door was ajar, the stench of mold mixed with machine oil, so thick it was nauseating.

The surveillance screen on the wall made his pupils contract—over twenty monitors, all showing his image: gritted side profile in the rehab center, bowed head in the library poring over old files, even pacing anxiously beneath Su Wan’s dorm.

At the center of the whiteboard, written in red marker: “Target: Song Zhao. Status: High risk. Recommendation: Accidental incident.” The red words burned his gaze like blood.

The alarm shrieked as he snapped photos, piercing his ears, red lights spinning across the wall, like the ghost of sirens.

The moment the security room door was kicked open, he grabbed the USB and bolted for the ventilation duct.

Dust in the duct made him cough, each breath laced with rust and years-old mold. His knees scraped against the rough pipe, burning with pain, warm blood seeping and sticking to his trousers.

Only after he crawled out to the flowerbed, hearing footsteps recede behind him, did he dare lean against the wall, gasping, chest heaving, cold sweat sliding down his spine.

As morning mist crept in, he glanced back at the brightly lit “Charity Building,” the neon “Lin Foundation, Benefiting Jiangcheng” still flashing, red light reflected on the wet ground like fresh blood.

He felt for the USB in his pocket, murmured, “You think I’m chasing the past, but in truth… I’m rebuilding the future.”

At the same moment, the desk lamp in the library’s Ancient Books Department still shone.

Su Wan sorted the USB contents, his father’s letter, and all photo scans into three volumes, writing “Cicada Chronicle” in fine script on the cover.

As she affixed the stamp, dawn spilled through the window, lighting up the bookmark, “The silkworm spins until death,” the pages stirring as if breathing.

“But even the silkworm, finally breaks the cocoon.” She spoke to the air, dropping the last letter into the mailbox.

Song Zhao’s phone vibrated then.

Dong Lan’s message was brief and forceful: “The provincial bureau has decided to reopen the ‘Zhaoyang Lane Case’ task force. For team leader… they want to know, are you willing to return?”

He stood at the alley’s entrance, watching the pale light rise in the east, suddenly remembering the attic of his father’s old house.

There, in a corner, lay a tin box he’d buried in secret at thirteen—inside were his father’s old police badge and half a bar of uneaten chocolate.

The six o’clock morning wind, heavy with dew, slipped into his collar. Song Zhao crouched on the attic floor of the old house, fingers searching for that loose floorboard.